THE FUNERAL PYRE

For two score years and fifteen
They gathered wood to make her bed
These men and women, some saffron,
Some white, some green, some red

 Their crocodile tears like acid
Or oil, the poison spread
And with torches fanned by hatred
They came to mourn their dead

 They forgot she was their mother
That from her they got her best
And in their ire, they lit the pyre
Now the flames won’t let us rest.

~Siddharth Sanyal~

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